John The Weaver
by WhirligigSwirl
Summary: Some people are born in the ordinary way. Squalling, pain to their mothers and years to grow, learning and crying and being angry and dating and loving and learning to be. Some, on the other hand, are plucked from the mind of a sleeping child.


**A/N: Sometimes AUs happen. This is not a ship, this is partially crack and partially my attempt to pay homage to the amazing friendship of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.**

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Some people are born in the ordinary way. Squalling, pain to their mothers and years to grow, learning and crying and being angry and dating and loving and learning to be.

Some, on the other hand, are plucked from the mind of a sleeping child. No, not like that, painfully and then forgotten. Sometimes, there is a child who dreams so fervently that their solid belief and faith draws someone into the world. This is the story of one such child, and his dream. His name? His name, my children, is Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

If you asked John Watson what he thought of himself, walking home from the shops as he gripped his cane, he might smile deprecatingly and ask where this had come from. He most definitely would avoid answering, because sometimes, he himself didn't know.

He was a doctor, and a damn good one. A soldier and a captain, willing to kill and be killed for his men. Strong, smart, quick under pressure, a crack shot, nerves of steel and a gentle sense of (often raunchy) humor, if you asked his men what they thought of him, you'd be busy for days. And that was the prologue.

But then there was the Jezail bullet, and before he could blink twice (he was out for most of it, to be honest) he was back home, bandaged in a bed in St. Mary's Hospital of London. He was lucky to survive that shot, as even the smallest bullet wound in the most obscure place could kill a man on the battle field unless there were the proper supplies on hand. Although perhaps John would have preferred that Corp. Morstan had listened a little less attentively to what he said about cleansing bullet wounds on the battle field. Because what was he worth if he couldn't fight and die for his men anymore, or even thread a fucking needle, for God's sake. Stupid fucking quavery surgeon's hands.

So he went back to London- not _home_, Christ no, that was Afghanistan, among his men- got a little bedsit, and tried his hardest to slip back into civilian life, without the camaraderie of the field and the tents and the heat and the danger and the smoke and the never-ending question, 'What if today is my last?' He tried to manage alone, with an almost ninety percent guarantee that, as long as he stayed out of dark alleys late at night, he'd have many more miserable days to look forward to. Because who died in London, except the ill?

And then, one day, after a particularly painful encounter with his therapist, he walked into his bedsit and sat looking at the gun in his hands, trying to work up the courage for a game of Russian roulette. There was the way people would publicize it, of course, and the way everyone would judge him. The soldier among many who took his own life. Gun laws should he fail. Being penalized. Harry, god help her, only just out of rehab, still sober for now. And really, he didn't like being shot. He'd already tried that, it had torn him away from everything he'd ever truly loved- feeling useful, fighting for the people beside him, being in command and knowing he was helping. Finally, he tucked the cartridge under his mattress and slipped the gun back into his drawer.

He laid back on his bed, hands on his belly, and tried not to hyperventilate, not to cry, not to panic. It happened occasionally, when he was feeling particularly useless, that he would have panic attacks, freeze up and retreat into his mind and.. and... He pulled his pillow over his face, forcing himself to breath into it, to slow his heart-rate, to not panic. He sobbed into it, and didn't even realize he'd curled into the foetal position until his breath was constricted by his knees pressing into his rib cage. He gasped into the fabric, dry sobs wracking his frame, and with all that was in him reached out for someone, anyone, to make him not-alone. To doctor the doctor.

Far away, decades ago and kilometres away (because this was England and kilometres were common), a family blossomed in the fabric of the universe, in an estate nestled in the surrounding country-side of a little town called Clevedon. A family which contained two boys, seven years apart, one red-haired and somber, one dark-haired and quick to cause mayhem, both sharp as pin. Several pins each, in fact.

Events changed, threads of time stretched, some were torn altogether from the weave of the world to make room for this remarkable pair, both of whom would take the world by storm. One would rule the land, and have the world at his fingertips before thirty. One would become a drug addict, drop out of college, invent a profession to suit his needs, and befriend a man in need of saving.

John Watson fell asleep clutching his pillow to his chest, suddenly filled with a bone-deep exhaustion, unaware that he had just single-handedly changed his fate, as children were wont to do upon occasion, when their hearts were true and their purpose urgent. And deep inside of him, a tiny spark of hope began to burn.

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**A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Brit-pick and con-crit are welcome. Reviews are love.**


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